Phobia
by Frozen-Okami's-Toy
Summary: Something's going to happen. I don't know when, and I don't know why. It just will. It may be paranoia, but I have this gut feeling. I'm not sure. Trust me, it's a wicked fear. It's a phobia. OOC and some yaoi involved.
1. Chapter 1: Let Me Stay

I do not own Kingdom Hearts. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction, and Sora would've died by now.

Painfully and brutally. In a strange, brutal, painful place.

And Org XIII would've kicked Sora's bastard ass.

* * *

"_My immediate reaction to having seen Death himself was to get something to eat._"

I sighed, ran my fingers through my thick, pink hair, and attempted at keeping my attention on the book in my hands.

"_I had skipped breakfast. If Death had taken me before I'd had something tasty for lunch, I would have been really, really angry with myself._"

Death. Funny thing about how such a thing works. It can happen any time…

"_Besides, I couldn't function on an empty stomach. My thinking was probably clouded by plunging blood sugar._"

I sometimes wish that was the case with me.

My attention shifted to the clock hanging on my living room wall for the seventeenth time in the last ten minutes and fifty seconds.

No, wait. Eleven minutes.

No, no. Eleven minutes, thirty seconds. Or… is it thirty-six?

Just give it a second… There!

"Twelve minutes. Exactly." I smiled triumphantly and looked down at my book again.

I had closed the hardcover without looking. Damn.

Opening it to the front cover, and giving it some thought, I reasoned that I had been on page one-hundred sixty-three, on the third paragraph.

Yeah, I can do Math. Are you surprised? Of course you are.

I had thirteen seconds to look at the page again when series of rapid knocks against the front door of my apartment made me jump.

Rather than get out of my seat on the leather couch, walk the twenty feet- or seventeen steps –to the door, welcome my visitor with a smile, and invite them in, I closed my book and set it aside.

I'm real nice, don't you think?

Looking down at myself, I was suddenly hit with a pang of physical self-disgust.

My black jeans seemed to be straining to keep my legs in- they were kind of tight –and had white marks on the tops of the thighs and shins.

I don't wear t-shirts anymore. I don't believe I look good enough to wear one. Instead, I had resorted to wearing long-sleeved shirts with high collars and turtle-necks. Both were appropriate for every-day Vermont weather. Today's top: turtle-neck.

I was only wearing black socks to top it off.

More knocking, then: "Marluxia!? It's Zexion! I'm coming in!" The other man's yell from outside didn't surprise me. He always said he'd be at my house at two-thirty p.m.

But he was never on time _exactly_. Sometimes five minutes at the latest, making me worry for no reason I could possibly know; sometimes even ten minutes early, to my delight.

I have this thing for perfection.

And Math.

Zexion says that my reasons for perfection are rooted in how cruel and strict my mother was. Zex's no psychiatrist, but Dr. Superior- my "free ticket out of the mad-house" as my other friend, Namine Neko, puts it –a real psychiatrist, says the same thing.

My mother says I'm just being stupid.

My mother- a woman whose name I refuse to say, or let alone,_ think_–was, and is, an all-out atheist, homophobe (though she had dated another woman for ten months before breaking it off), racist, and put-down artist.

But, I'm getting caught up in the past. This story isn't set like that. Or is it…? I might need to think about this for a while.

The light click of a key moving the tumblers in my door lock cast my line of sight to a wall not too far from me.

The hiss of a near vacuum-sealed maple wood door opening made me stare at the ceiling. I wouldn't- _couldn't_ –look at the door.

Rather, what was beyond it.

The door was pushed open by my friend, sending a bright beam of light flying into the room.

Odd, the apartment hadn't seemed dark to me. And, apparently, the human eye wasn't made to take in large portions of light in so little time.

For those of you who are a bit slow, that means the light hurt my eyes.

"Hey!" Zexion chimed happily, stepping inside. He closed the door behind himself quickly.

Ah, he knows me so well.

"So, are you feeling up to-." He looked around and blinked. "Why are you sitting in in the dark?" He looked at the book I had set down earlier. "Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes. Hell, I'm almost blind now because of my bad habit of doing that!"

How he can keep such a good mood around me is completely unknown.

"Anyways, are you feeling up to going to Dr. S.'s office today?" The short man looked around. "I mean- tonight?"

"No." I stood up and held my arms apart, as though I were going to give him a hug.

Yeah, right.

"I look terrible."

"Sure ya do." Damn his sarcasm.

I put my arms down and hung my head. "I'm almost bursting out of these jeans."

"Well, on the way to your psychiatrist's office, I'll call Dr. Vexen and have him haul a super-pump here. Suck all the fat out." He grabbed my hand and began to pull me towards the front door.

"Um, uh..." I tried desperately to find an excuse. "My hair's a wreck."

"So's your brain. You don't mind that, though." He pulled a bit harder.

"You're such a little bastard," I spat angrily, pulling and hand away.

He turned and looked at me, a false expression of anger on his face. "Oh, you're so MEAN, Marly!" he whined.

Oh, here he goes again. Copying me.

I crossed my arms. He did the same.

I narrowed my eyes. Zexion copied me.

"I hate you." A chill ran up my spine as I spoke those three words. It was the total opposite of how I felt.

Zexion uncrossed his arms and grabbed me by the arm. "I love you too. Now come on."

I growled angrily. "_No_."

He looked at me questioningly. "Then what're you going to do? Sit here and rot away?"

"No, I'll cancel my appointment, _then _rot away." I pulled away again, with more vigor than intended, making Zexion stumble forward on his over-sized, black-and-red checkered Vans.

Don't ask me why I had to tell you what his shoes looked like. I'm a bit excessive-compulsive.

And perfectionist.

And agoraphobic.

And secretive.

And, yeah, well, the list goes on. Hm? Agoraphobia? I don't know if you know what that means. I had looked up such a thing on the Internet as soon as I was diagnosed.

**_Agoraphobia_**_ is an anxiety disorder, often precipitated by the fear of having a panic attack in a setting from which there is no easy means of escape. As a result, sufferers of agoraphobia may avoid public and/or unfamiliar places. In severe cases, the sufferer may become confined to their home, experiencing difficulty traveling from this "safe place."_

"Safe" and "place" were the first two words that had caught my attention. It made me feel as though the world was treating us with such phobias like children or simpletons.

I can calculate how many feet are from my living room sofa, to the front door, to the kitchen, and back without a pencil and paper. I don't even need a calculator.

When you're confined to your home, you have plenty of time to think about stuff you wouldn't normally think about.

While on the subject of phobias and anxiety disorders, I might as well describe Zex's past now.

When my best friend was fifteen, he had been walking along on his own. Back then, he and I had lived in New York City. We've moved sinse then.

"_When all of a sudden, these weird-ass guys wearing porkpie hats came out of nowhere!_" I remember him telling me some time later. "_They knocked me out, handcuffed my wrists and ankles, and jammed me into the trunk of an old Buick._"

If I can properly recall, he began stuttering at this part. I'll spare you the pain of trying to decipher it. "_So, I finally wake up, and realize I'm in the trunk of a car. By then, I was freaking out pretty badly. But, just to make things worse, this humming sound started giving me a headache. I kicked the trunk of the car open and looked around, only to see that I had been left in one of those car-squeezing-things. You know, that turns cars into three by three blocks of metal? Yeah, well those weirdos in porkpie hats had gone and pressed the _CRUSH ZEXION KITSUNE _button._"

I'm terribly afraid that I can't remember the rest. But, after that incident, he had gained a severe case of claustrophobia and a nervous disorder. Well, as far as a nervous disorder, his stuttering was so bad that it was hard to understand him.

After a few months of "rehab" as he had called it, Zexion stopped seeing a "professional common-sense" and took up reading. Which, apparently, had helped him greatly. Though the fact he reads in the dark is giving him a hard time.

He claims he's going blind. Nobody believes him. But don't schizophrenics usually turn down their doctors' claims of severe mental illness? My point exactly.

I also had another friend- or was it Zexion's friend? -who had a strange mental condition.

Poor guy has- had? -anorexia.

Actually, that's incorrect. Anorexia nervosa is the proper term. And I believe Zex had said something about him being diabetic.

And people think my condition is bad.

* * *

...

Yay. First chapter of first story.

How does one react? By typing in all caps and without spaces?

OMAIGAWDPLZR&R!

That's... very disturbing if you ask me. Just... if you R&R, do me a favor.

Use spaces and proper grammar.


	2. Chapter 2: WTF?

I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any of its sequels.

* * *

Oh man, here he goes again. Refusing my help.

Doesn't he know that agoraphobia is serious? He's so persistent. It sometimes takes me almost ten minuets to get him to go to his psychiatrist's office. Most of the time, the whole fight will just be a glaring contest.

I always win, of course.

Once, Marluxia actually told me that he saw me as a wicked king, sitting upon a pile of dead bodies and covered in blood, laughing maniacally.

Then I told Marly that he looked like the kind of man to host a childrens' show full of flowers and love. That, of course, earned me a glare.

Back to the story.

"Marluxia, you can't call the appointment off _now._ You have to call two days in advance or else you have to pay." I stumbled over to the wall on my left and groped for a light switch. "And turn on a light for God's sake!"

"It's my apartment, and I like it dark."

I looked at the potted plant sitting on coffee table in the middle of the room.

A smirk flitted across my face.

"Won't your plant die without light?"

He turned around and looked at the plants. "No, those are fake. The real ones are in my bedroom with a sunlamp."

I sighed. This was going to be hard.

Ping! Idea!

"Hey, if you come peacefully, I'll get some takeout." I looked up at him, smiling.

Hook…

He seemed deep in thought. Deep enough that even flaming zombie cows couldn't distract him.

"Is that old Chinese food place over on Pine Ridge Road still open?" he asked.

Line…

"Uh-huh. Closest to Asia you'll ever get in Vermont! Hell, there's even a Ben and Jerry's open across the street from there!"

You'd expect them to have a Ben and Jerry's ice cream in every city in Vermont by now.

"…Fine, I'll go. Just let me get my shoes."

Sinker!

With my promise of exceptional Chinese food and moderately expensive ice cream, my phobic friend _finally_ decided to come without a fight.

Yay! No bloodshed!

* * *

After about ten minuets, Marluxia found his shoes (he had fished them out from underneath his bed) and grabbed his coat.

He took a deep breath, then: "Okay. To Hell we go."

I opened the door quickly, grabbing him by the hand and leading him out as fast as I could.

Though open spaces have a very good effect on my brain and emotions, the case is totally different from my best friend's.

Immediately, he latched onto my arm for dear life, keeping his head down and looking at the floor. Through my gray hoodie (it was January, in case you didn't know), I could feel his nails digging into my skin.

I stood still for a second, looking around the snow-covered city of Burlington. I could faintly make out the Green Mountains to the West, inappropriately named for the winter months.

"Hey, Mar-!"

"Start moving, NOW. I'm not looking up."

Couldn't fight his logic. If looking into an infinite space gives you a panic attack, don't look into an infinite space.

Or the sky, for that matter.

Or your lover's eyes.

Or eye, in some cases. I wouldn't know. I've been single since high school.

Girls don't interest me. Think about that for a second.

We hurried down the concrete stairs, making a winning attempt at not slipping on an icy patch we had seen a neighbor hurt himself upon, and made it to my car.

Another ten minutes down the drain. Great. If Marluxia'd look up once, we could've gone faster.

But no!

…I guess I should be so mean. I freak out if I'm in a room smaller than five by five feet.

Imagine using a bathroom. It gets pretty hard when you're not on meds.

Trust me.

I pulled my friend over to the blue Saturn that I had bought (well, my mom got it for me on my twenty-first birthday) a few years ago.

Yeah, my mom is kinda weird. Surprise-surprise! I am too!

"C'mon, bud, get in the car," I beckoned sweetly.

Still shaking, Marluxia rushed over to the other side of the car, to the passenger's-side door, and leaped into his seat.

Not literally, of course. That would've scared the living Hell out of me.

...I say "Hell" a lot, don't I?

I got in myself, feeling a pang of sudden fear course through my veins. I shook my head and rubbed my temples, trying to regain my overly-happy composure. _No, Zex... You're fine._

I jammed my key into the ignition and turned it, beaming at my friend.

"Off we g-!"

"Just GO ALREADY!" he snapped.

"Watch you're tone, Marly," I said playfully, reaching over and poking his shoulder.

He twitched and looked at me from underneath his jacket hood. He glared at me. Angrily.

"I hate you _so damned much_," he growled.

Right then, I could've sworn thunder boomed in the distance and wolves howled somewhere on the Greens.

A beamed at him obnoxiously. "Aw, I love you too, Marlu!" I cooed happily.

He turned away, mumbling to himself.

Wait- did he blush?

No, of course not.

I rolled my eyes and started the ignition on my car.

After ten minutes of silence, I heard a pitiful-sounding "sorry" come from the seat next to me.

I looked over at Marluxia for a split second, and then turned back to the road.

I'm young, not stupid. I know when to look at the damn road when driving.

By the by, the answer is always.

"…Excuse me?" I blinked and gave him another quick glance.

Knees drawn up to his chest, the pink-haired man repeated what he had said earlier.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for… what now?" I switched gears. The car slowed down as we left the highway and reached the larger part of the city.

"For being such a jerk earlier." He leaned up against the window, and I could see that his eyes were closed. "You were just trying to help. I'm real sorry."

I smiled. Isn't he just the sweetest freak you've ever met?

Actually, I think my half-brother Axel is the sweetest freak I've ever met.

If "sweet freak" can be defined as three trips to drug rehab and a lifetime of seeing psychiatrists. And having a mother who killed your sister and tried to smother you with a pillow because you were born premature.

I pulled into the parking lot and shut the car off. As soon as I unlocked the doors-

Shit, where'd Marluxia go?

The door was wide open, the seat belt hadn't even finished retracting, and I could see a mass of black and pink moving swiftly to the elevator doors. Sweet mother of God, he moves fast!

I unhooked my own seat-belt and bolted from the car, closing the diver's-side door behind me. I closed the other door, too, for obvious reasons.

I sprinted over to the elevators in pursuit of Marluxia, wishing my legs were longer and that I wasn't so short.

And that my contacts were more comfortable.

I pushed the silver-blue bangs out of my face as I reached the elevators, slipping inside before the doors closed completely. The cab was extremely small for the size of the building were in; it probably couldn't hold more than five people. And how big was this thing? Six by eight feet?

Marluxia was pressed into a corner, arms wrapped around himself. I promptly kicked him in the shin.

Apparently freed from some kind of shock-induced daze, he looked up at me and winced. "Wh- Why'd you kick me!?" he stuttered, almost sounding heart-broken.

I glared at him through my hair. "You left my car door open and _ran,_" I growled. "You could've at least waited!"

"Sorry... I guess I just kinda spazzed out..." He reached up and took off his jacket hood. "And I thought I closed the door behind me." He ran his fingers through perfect red dye-76-induced hair.

I looked around the elevator cab. We had already reached the sixth floor. Eight more levels to go. Hey, did this place get smaller?

I pressed my back up against my friend's body. "M- Mar- Marluxi- uh..." My eyes darted back and forth, up and down. This place had to be getting smaller! "Marlu..." My throat seized up, a side effect of extreme fear.

Oh great. I'm having a panic attack. Hey, can we just skip this part, y'know, save me the trouble? No? Damn you, Author.

_Author: (laughs)_

"Marluxia!" I covered my eyes with my palms, black-painted nails digging into the soft flesh of my temples and brow.

Really, can't we just-?

_Author: No skipping._

"Relax, Zex!" Marly tugged my hands away from my face and held them down to my sides. "**I'M **supposed to be the spazzy, panicky, weirdo in this devious duo of ours!"

Keeping my eyes closed, I tried to struggle from his grip. "Marluxia! Stop! Please, man! Stop!"

"Oh look, we're here." His hands moved from my wrists down to my lower back, shoving me through the elevator doors.

When did those open?

I stumbled through, finally falling in the middle of the pure-white hallway. Thank goodness nobody was there to see that.

Still sitting on the floor, I turned to glare at Marluxia. "What was that for!?" I snapped angrily.

He stepped through the metal doors gracefully, smirking. "You were having a panic attack, and naturally, I tried to help." He reached out and helped me up.

"You had to shove me?"

"Anger replaced fear, little buddy."

"I'm not little."

"Well, you're sure not big."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, you seem better now."

"This place is more comforting than your car," Marly scoffed.

"You saying my car isn't nice?"

"Zexion, it's a Saturn. Not a Ferrari."

I grabbed my friend's arm and began to drag him down the hall towards Dr. Superior's receptionist. "If I had a Ferrari," I began-.

"IF."

"IF I had a Ferrari," I began again, stealing a look at his grin, "It'd be blue."

"Or black."

"Or black with blue racing stripes."

Marluxia pulled his arm from my grip and came to my side. "Or just flat back."

"You calling me Emo, pansy-boy?"

"Are you calling me pansy-boy, Emo?"

"Hey, you're both freaks, okay!?" We looked up from our conversation and to the receptionist.

Hands on her hips, face set in a scowl, knees locked and skirt cut to less than half its original length, the blond glared at us angrily. She was standing behind the a desk set outside a black-painted door.

"Having a good day, Larxene?" Marluxia asked.

"Best of my life." She sat down and began typing on her computer. "I guess you're here to see Mansex, right?"

I snorted. "Mansex...? What's that about?" A light laugh bubbled up in my throat.

"Well, his name, Xemnas, is and anagram of Mansex. I wrote it on his door in white-out." She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder to Dr. Superior's office. "Doctor Mansex Superior" was written in big letters on the black door in white-out. "I guess you're here to see him then?"

"Uh-huh." Marluxia wiped some tears from his face. Had he been laughing? Probably had a hand clamped over his mouth.

Forgot to look.

The door hissed open and Xemnas stepped through, wearing a flat-black suit. He really needs to rethink what he wears. This entire place is white! Well, with the exception of his door.

"Ah! Mr. Delafleur! How nice to see that you've gained the courage to come today!" The Doctor smiled calmly and looked at me. "Your friend- Zexion, correct? -can stay here during your session."

Marluxia shoved her coat into my hands and said, "Be right back, Zex. Don't go and have a panic attack while I'm gone, okay?"

I rolled my eyes and nodded, but Xemnas almost smirked. "A panic attack? Why would that happen?"

All of the blood in my body seemed to go straight to my face. "I have this extreme case of claustrophobia. Freaked out in the elevator."

"How unfortunate." He frowned and pulled a card from his jacket pocket, handing it to me. "Call me if you'd like any help with that."

I shook my head but accepted the small peice of laminated paper anyway. "I don't think I will, honestly. I'm on medication already, and the last thing I need is to see a psychiatrist." I tucked the card away.

"Fine, I'm not forcing you. Come, Mr. Delafleur! We have much to cover today!" The two men walked back into the office, leaving me and Larxene alone.

Scratch that. Larxene was paying attention to her cell phone, so it was more like just me.

Okay, now my cell phone was ringing. Larxene glared at me and continued her own conversation.

I dug it from my pants pocket and flipped it open, sitting on the stark-white sofa at the end of the hall, ten feet away.

"_Hey, Zexion?_"


	3. Chapter 3 Part 1: Angel of Death

From down the block, I could already see Axel sitting high upon a roof, silhouetted against the dark sky, hallucinating and suicidal. Three crows circled him, dangerously close to his head, as if they sensed the dead brain in my friend's skull.

On ground level, I parked my van by the curb, behind a patrol car emblemized with the name of a private-security company; the kind used in those weird fenced-in residential communities.

The guard stood, hands fisted on his hips, staring skyward at my friend angrily. I could feel the head-cracking-ness mood he was in from inside my car.

I shut off the engine and stepped out, deciding to chance my life by standing nest to the burly man in uniform.

Which I quickly regretted.

He looked at me- or rather, looked _down_ at me -and scowled. His face was so wrinkled I couldn't really tell if he was scowling, squinting, or just plain old. He looked about thirty.

"Can I… help you, sir?" he asked in a deep-throated voice. I swallowed the spit in my mouth and smiled uneasily.

"Uh… I'm the painting contactor…" I choked out, jabbing a thumb at the rather large house in front of us. "That's my crew."

Squall Leonhart sat on the front porch steps, a pair of over-sized headphones perched on his head and a portable radio hanging from his belt (he looked up and waved at me); Axel Caulfield was still on the roof looking at the circling birds; Saix Hund was sitting on the ground not too far from Squall, scratching German words into the dirt.

From where I was standing, it looked like "_Tod kommt auf schnelle Flügel zum thee mit dem roten Haar._"

Maybe I should learn German, just for the Hell of it. It'd be nice to know what that freak's saying when he gets angry.

Scratch that. I don't think I _wanna_ know.

I could now clearly tell that the guard was scowling at me. "Painting contractor? Crew?" He looked me over once.

I think he was looking through me.

It was pretty obvious that I was a painting contactor from the blue stitching on the pocket of my white button-down shirt that read _Roxas __Vita's Painting_. The same thing was on the others' shirts. "Yeah, I call it a crew. We used to call it a strike force, but that scared customers off. Sounded too aggressive."

Heh, _strike force_. I'm sure that would make me laugh if that last sentence wasn't true.

The guard sighed, probably annoyed with me, and looked back at the suicidal red-head. "Whatever, Mr. Vita. Just make sure he doesn't jump. I don't need any state police officers over here."

I don't think state police officers come to murders; especially suicides.

I nodded at him. "Yeah, we'll get Axel down."

"Who?" His squint tightened. Maybe he was deciding whether or not to punch me in the mouth…?

"The jumper," I elucidated, heading along the driveway toward Hund.

After a moment, I realized the guard was following me. "Do you think I should call the fire department?" he asked.

"Nah, I'm sure he won't torch himself before he jumps."

"This is a nice neighborhood- wait, torch himself?"

"Hell, it's perfect. And he's a bit of a pyromaniac."

"A suicide is going to upset our residents."

"We'll scoop up the guts, bag the remains, hose away the blood, and nobody will ever know it happened."

Wow… I think I'm on my father's side of the family. Bad jokes and all.

I was surprised that none of the neighbors had gathered to watch the drama like an episode of _Beverly Hills 90210_. At this hour, they were all probably still eating caviar muffins and drinking champagne and orange juice out of gold goblets. Fortunately, my clients- the Sorensons -were vacationing in London.

I said, "Morning, Sai."

"Bastard," Saix replied.

"Me?"

"Him," Hund spat, pointing at Axel on the roof.

At six foot-five, Saix Hund was a good half-foot taller than me. He was skinny but strong- very strong -and could easily toss a small car across a football field. He was wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt but no jacket, in spite of the freezing weather; the temperature seemed to bother him as much as it would a granite statue of Paul Bunyan.

Tapping the phone on his belt, Hund said, "Damn, boss, I called you, like, yesterday. Where've you been?"

"You called ten minuets ago, and where I've been is running traffic lights and mowing down schoolkids in crosswalks."

"There's a twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit in this community," the security guard advised solemnly.

Glowering up at Axel Caulfield, Saix shook his head. "Man, I'd like to _ermorden Sie diesen Punk._"

"...What?"

Saix rolled his eyes. "It means... what is it in English? Murder that punk?"

"He's a confused kid," I said.

"He's a drug-sucking _Köter_," Hund disagreed.

"He's been clean lately."

"He's a sewer."

"You've got such a big heart, Sai."

"What's important is that I've got a brain, and that I'm not going to _bumsen Sie es oben _with drugs; and I especially don't want to hang around people who self-destruct like him."

Saix, the crew foreman, is a German for those of you who hadn't realized it yet. He isn't a Nazi, but has the judgemental attitude and anger issues to be one. He also had a large letter X scarred onto his face from a gang fight he got into with some drunk guys.

It's a nasty mark, but it works on him.

I like both Saix and Axel, but for different reasons. Hund was funny when he wanted to be, smart, and reliable- if not judgmental. Axel was gentle and sweet- although probably doomed to a life of selfless indulgence, days without purpse, and nights full of loneliness.

Saix is by far the better employee of the two. If I was a strict, do-it-by-the-book kind of boss with some common sense, I would've fired Axel a long time ago.

Life would be easy if common sense ruled; but sometimes the easy way doesn't feel like the right way.

"We're probably going to get snowed out," I said. "Why'd you send Axe up on the roof anyway?"

"I didn't. I told him to sand the window casings and trim on the ground floor. Next thing I know, he's on the roof saying he's gonna _nehmen Sie eine Überschrift _into the driveway."

"I'll get him."

"I tried. The closer I got, the more hysterical he became."

"He's probably afraid of you."

"He damn well better be! If _I _kill him, it'll be a lot more painful then splitting his head on the pavement."

The gaurd flipped open his cell phone. "Maybe I should call the police?"

I forgot he was standing behind me.

"_No!_" Realizing that my voice had been too sharp, I took a deep breath and calmly said, "Neighborhood like this, people don't want a fuss like this when it can be avoided."

If the cops came, they might get Axel down safely, but then they'd commit him to a psychiatric ward for three days. Maybe even longer. The last thing he needs is to fall into the hands of one of those head doctors whose ideas on the mind were so unreal and unreservedly enthusiastic, he'd repeatedly dip into the psychoactive pharmacopoeia to ladle up a fruit punch of behavior-modification drugs that, while imposing a short-term "cure", would ultimately give him even more mental short-circuiting synapses then he had now.

"Neighboorhoods like this," I said, "don't want any problems."

The guard surveyed the immense houses along the street, the dead flowerbeds and well-tended lawns, sent to Hell with the snow. "You've got ten minutes."

Saix raised his right fist and shook it at Axel.

Under the circling halo of crows, the red-head waved.

The security guard said, "Anyway, he doesn't look suicidal."

"The little geek says he's happy because an Angel of Death is sitting beside him," Hund explained, "and the angel has shown him what it's like on the other side, and what it's like, he says, is really awesomely cool."

Wow, I've never heard Saix use a sentence _that long_ and not use the confusing German language in it. This is the perfect moment to celebrate.

"I'll go talk to him," I said.

Saix scowled. "Talk, hell. Give him a push."

* * *

**The author would now like to say something.**

This story is based off a certain book, a very good book, and they would like to know what book it's based on. The first person to review this story with the correct answer will decide what will happen in the next part of the plot, _despite_ what the author has planned for it.

Just, don't kill anybody. All of the characters are important in this story, and I'll be lost if Zexy jumps off a cliff.

Please- _please_-don't use chatspeak. I'm sure everyone on the site is mature enough to type in English (or Spanish, French, etc. depending on where you live) without using abbreviations like 'BRB' and 'ROFLMAO'.

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I walked under the soft rustling of a bare sugar maple and along the side of the house. Here I found Squall "Leon" Leonhart, the third member of the crew.

Hooked to Leon's bet was a radio- his ever-present electronic IV bottle. A pair of headphones dripped talk radio into his ears.

He doesn't listen to programs concernead with any political issues or with the problems of modern life. Any hour, any day or night, Leon knew where on the dial to tune in a show dealing with UFOs, alien abductions, telephone messages from the dead, fourth-demensionsla beings, and Big Foot.

"Hey, Leon."

"Hey."

Leon was diligantly anding a window casing. His callused fingers were coated with white powdered paint.

"You know about Axel?" I asked, following the slate pathway past the brunette.

Nodding, Leon said, "Roof."

"Pretending he's gonna jump."

"Probably will."

I stopped and turned, surprised. "You really think so?"

Leonhart was usually so taciturn that I wasn't expecting any more than a shrug of the shoulders as a reply. Instead, Leon said, "Axel doesn't believe in anything."

"Anything what?" I asked.

"Anything period."

"He isn't a bad guy, really."

Leon's reply, for me, was the equivallent of casual after-dinner speech. No one should talk about another's life like that! "Problem is, he isn't much of anything."


End file.
